


No Good In This World

by lezzerlee



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Community: inception_kink, Death References, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Self-Esteem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-01
Updated: 2011-05-01
Packaged: 2017-10-18 20:47:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/193128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lezzerlee/pseuds/lezzerlee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur is in love with Eames but Eames refuses to acknowledge it. One night, Eames gets fantastically drunk and Arthur takes care of him. Drunk!Eames admits he knows Arthur’s feelings for him and insists he should find someone else because he’s not good enough for Arthur. When he wakes up, Arthur confronts him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Good In This World

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for [this prompt](http://community.livejournal.com/inception_kink/13659.html?thread=30220891#t30220891) at [Inception_Kink](http://community.livejournal.com/inception_kink)

He's staring at his hands. He vaguely notices the poker chip floating between his knuckles, flipping back and forth easily. He changes his focus, just beyond his calloused fingertips and crooked pinky finger, to the die that hasn't landed the way he'd like. He stares as the dealer swipes his chips away from him across the decaying felt of the table. Another loss.

"Right then." he grunts to himself and shoves away from the table. He pockets the remainder of his dwindling chips and heads to the bar for another scotch. He wonders why he even bothers, he hasn't won in months. His money from the Fischer job is starting to run low, not desperately so, but he should stop frittering his money away like this anyway.

He doesn't.  
…

He drinks. He's almost aware that he's trying deliberately to fuzz out his thoughts. But that would entail acknowledging that he's having thoughts in need of fuzzing in the first place, which he doesn't want to do. And it doesn't work. It never really works. So he takes the beautiful brunette with the Irish accent, who's only been here a day and just "loves the feel of this place," to bed. He fucks her so hard into the mattress he can barely breathe. But he can't not think. So he tries a blonde, and then a boy, but none of them can keep his thoughts away. So he gives up fucking at all.  
…

He's lost again at craps so he heads to his apartment because there's nowhere else he can go and he's certain he has a bottle of Glenfiddech stowed away somewhere in his cabinets. He slumps onto the antique wing chair in living room. His shoulders roll foreword as he leans, his elbows across his thighs, head dipped and glass dangling from his fingertips between his knees.

The sun outside is setting; a soft orange glow over the amazingly dusty city for how humid it is right now. The window is shuttered though, and the last of the sun only breaks into to room in thin lines. He likes to sit in the dark. It feels appropriate. He slowly takes a sip, rolling the alcohol over his tongue a bit, savoring the smoothness of quality and studies the floor. He can just make out the hint of a face in the undirected pattern of carpet. It reminds him of the rug his mum…

"Bloody hell," he mutters angrily to himself before he can finish the thought. That line of thinking never leads anywhere good. He drains his glass quickly, the burn in his throat telling him to slow down, but he ignores it and pushes off the chair to pour another drink.

...

He's going to have to start answering calls again. This time next month he's not going to be able to pay his rent anymore. He wonders if any of the team is working again so soon.

"The Team," he laughs bitterly to himself. _As if he ever belonged to a team._

"Really Eames, you must be joking, yeah?" he whispers. And before he can stop his line of thought he recalls the last time he had felt comfortable staying on with a set group of dream-sharers.

He can still smell the blood that is splattered over the hotel walls, metallic and tangy and sweet. Crimson paint across white plaster canvas; chunks of brain and hair mixed in with the broken glass of a picture frame that's fallen off the wall. He's seen death before, but not like this. Because he's never seen that kind of colorlessness in what he knew were once such beautiful and graceful wrists. Wrists that were very much alive, wrapped around his neck tightly, smelling sweetly of a faint perfume, just days before. And they were not broken and very much not tied to a chair dangling limply with blood dripping from ghost white fingertips.

He shakes his head as if to physically force the memories out of his mind.

He's never allowed himself to get so attached to business partners that way again. He'd float in and out of various groups, never sticking with a set team. It was easier that way. Better for everyone involved.

…

Ariadne calls. He doesn't pick up. He knows he should.

…

Ariadne calls again two months later. He's sifting through the faded leather wallet he's freshly stolen, pulling out a few bills that will be dinner later and faded family pictures. His lips pull down at the corners automatically when he sees the smiling family. He can't bring himself to answer the phone. His landlord isn't out for his head just yet. Maybe he can hold off just a little longer. Maybe he'll just leave, head to a new city and try and start over. He'll steal a car, con his way into some money, create a new identity…

"Because starting over has ever got you very far." He scoffs to himself.

He crushes the pictures in his hand.

…

Arthur calls. Eames frowns lopsidedly with indecision. On the fifth ring he answers.

"Yeah?" is Eames' clipped greeting.

"We have a job we'd like your assistance with." Arthur says casually.

"Who's we?" Eames says mockingly sweet. He doesn't know why he feels anxious, but a small knot is slowly growing in his stomach.

"Ariadne and I." Arthur replies, because he knows damn well that Eames knows whom he's speaking to.

"Ariadne eh? No Cobb?"

"He's at home with his children."

"Who's extracting?"

"I am."

"That seems risky, taking on both roles."

"Are you doubting my skills?" Challenges Arthur.

"Never, darling." Eames banters because it's expected.

"It's a fairly straightforward job."

"How many levels?"

"One."

"Right then. I'll be there in a week."

"You don't know where _here_ is." Arthur says skeptically.

"Don't underestimate _me_ , pet." Eames hangs up.

…

  
Eames arrives in San Francisco three days later. He wonders if Arthur made it laughably easy for him on purpose, or if he was just terribly careless about covering Ariadne's tracks for her. He thinks the former is more likely.

They have a large loft set up south of downtown. The windows reach from floor to ceiling looking out across rooftops and into the high rises of the financial district. From the roof they can see the Bay Bridge, stretching east across the dark water.

The mark is an up and coming politician. Mr. Lucas Forthright is slick, young, vibrant, passionate, and full of purpose. He's also an adulterer. He's already been outed once and made it through the backfire so apparently they need to dig up something more to take him down. He's going to be running for Governor soon and his policies are going to shake things up just a little to much more their client's taste.

Eames infiltrates the governor to be's campaign team. It's one of the easiest breeches he's ever performed. It makes him wonder how the Americans came to be so powerful when they let thieves into their midst so easily. Then he remembers that the politicians are usually the biggest thieves in the end and is just glad he didn't have to come up with a ridiculous or elaborate plan to get near their mark. Instead he plays clever, he plays loyal, he play ruthless, like he would play a game of poker and he's soon moved into the inner circle by someone who thinks he _has all the right ideas about this game._ Now close enough to read their mark with ease, he relays his progress to the team.

…

Arthur studies him.

It's uncomfortable.

Ariadne is off designing an idealistic version of the hills of San Francisco, all clean and crisp with not a scrap of trash in sight. Not even a tossed cigarette butt is in the street or bird excrement on a window ledge. She makes the streets tangle into each other as a maze of hills and alleys. Each Victorian house or brick warehouse is a mess of paradoxical stairs, just in case they need to escape a chase. It's a city of something more than an ideal, something the mark with be automatically drawn to with his youth and hope.

And Arthur is studying him, instead of pouring over the usual excess of details and data he's scrounged up about the target.

He glances in Arthur's direction, looking up from a stack of pictures he's examining, and catches the young man's eyes. Arthur doesn't shy away, doesn't flinch at all. He simply stares, a slight smile just hinting at the corners of his mouth.

It feels almost like a dare.

…

Eames and Arthur discuss surveillance. Arthur notes that the young politician frequents a day spa monthly. This will give them an opportunity to put him under without drawing any suspicion. They can either pay off the staff, or simply take the governor when he's already expected to be indisposed and not available for a few hours.

Eames then relays that the politician has a painfully cliche romantic obsession with his personal assistant, a lovely young redhead with perfect white skin and an easy smile.

"You can get to him through her."

"Really Arthur, is that a question or a statement?" Eames flashes a smile, that's all teeth and no humor. He is confident; at least confident that he can do his job. Arthur's lack of faith stabs sharper than he'd like to admit. There is a reason they hired him after all. He'd like to not be second-guessed. Arthur's reply to that is a smile that reaches Arthur's eyes. It's all teeth and humor with the dimples showing on his cheeks.

Eames is no longer confident, because that wasn't lack of faith Arthur was expressing. That was a very clear compliment, which is not what he'd expected from Arthur at all. Shifting his weight a bit uncomfortably he grunts and turns to leave.

…

Eames goes under by himself to practice. He doesn't need anything but a mirror right now so his world is blank, soft white and gray, infinite almost, with a slight haze at the edges. He practices his forge. At first it's like static, each feature flickers in and out, the most important coming first. The hair is her most prominent feature. It's coppery red, smooth and soft until it curls at her shoulders, vibrant and eye-catching.

Then comes her waist, slim but sturdy, softness and muscle move underneath a navy blue blazer. The blazer shifts to gray, to green, to deep red. He settles on gray, because it brings out the green in her eyes, which are now looking back at him in the floating mirror. Lashes, soft and transparent at the base but covered in a layer of brown mascara at the tips to bring them out, flutter as he blinks.

He smiles. His pout is her pout, more cupid's bow like than his own, and small freckles appear on his upper lip slowly stretching to the cheeks. They're faint, barely noticeable, under a light dusting of cream powder. Then the soft lines at the eyes, the ones that show she smiles a lot, deepen in his skin. Followed by the barely noticeable lines at her brow, the ones that show she concentrates just as often as she smiles, appear as well.

This feels nice: becoming someone else, perfecting something, slipping into a skin that has a different past and different emotions than his own, becoming less like himself. He thinks this is why he's so good at it. He's so willing to take on another life, just to escape, for a little while.

She went to Stanford, or so Arthur tells him. And he imagines her sitting in the grass on campus, studying in the shade of a tree as the sun warms her. She's dedicated, driven, but she has an effortlessness in her that he imagines made friends forgive her for skipping the parties on Friday nights. He perfects a coy smile he imagines she would flash at any suitor. Not saying no, and not saying yes at the same time.

"Why does it flicker like that?"

Eames jumps, surprised and returns to his own form with stiff shoulders. He regains his composure and turns slowly towards the invading voice, eyebrows arched in annoyance. Arthur stands behind him, hands in the pockets of his perfectly tailored pants and head cocked slightly to the side. If he's seen Eames startle, he doesn't mention it.

"What _exactly_ are you doing here?" Eames bites. Irritated from being caught off guard.

"I just wanted to see how it works. I've only ever seen you shift when you've already studied the person. And you haven't answered my question."

Anger briefly flashes across Eames' face, tightening at his cheeks and temples before he can clamp down on it. He doesn't know if it's from annoyance at the intrusion, or his lack of a good answer to the question. If Arthur saw his anger, he didn't acknowledge it. So Eames is silent for a moment, working his jaw back and forth as he collects his words.

"I suppose it's because my mind is processing it quickly. It just comes to me. I tend to shift more fluidly when the details have already been decided upon. They slip into place if they've already been introduced. But when creating her, or anyone at first, there is nothing before, and so it switches on."

"Fascinating." Arthur hums. It's low in his throat and Eames can't tell if it's condescending or approving. There's something distantly sexual in it, but he can't tell if it's that's his imagination, or Arthur's intent. And then he recalls how Arthur has been genuinely nice to him lately, and on Fischer job, even with their bickering. He remembers the compliment given, _Eames, I am impressed_ , and how if he snapped back as a defense.

"Glad you approve Arthur." He mimics the sarcasm he used in that response because it's a safe retort. "Now if you don't mind…" he trails off waiving his hand dismissively in the air.

"May I watch?"

Eames eyes dart up to meet Arthur's. That one definitely feels like a dare. Eames remembers the look from earlier. That thing in the pit of his stomach turns. He swallows slowly, deciding on a response. He chooses to display disinterest with slight exasperation though he's feeling anxiety and slight desperation.

"Suit yourself," he shrugs with effort and turns back to the mirror. His concentration is a little bit more than shaken. Arthur materializes a chair in the blank world and sits, leaning back with legs crossed at the ankles and hands folded neatly in his lap.

He's relaxed, and that bothers Eames but he shakes it off, trying to get back to where he was. He stares into the mirror and forces himself to concentrate, to not let Arthur's presence here rattle him. The features he's already mastered ease onto him fluidly. He closes his eyes, focusing on where he was in the transformation.

She's in college, she's free, she flirtatious, she's decisive, she's open, she's busy, she's dedicated, she gets her first pair of smart heels. Not club heels, they're too high and flashy, just basic, empowering, comfortable, and discreetly sexy, black court shoes. They appear on his bare feet, which have changed into pale and delicate ends to lusciously curved, milky, and hairless calves.

He envisions her in her poly-sci class sitting close to the front to hear better, hunched over her notes, taking down every word diligently. A knot forms in his back, the one that she's never been able to get rid of because she works so hard and holds so much of her stress between the blades of her shoulders. His posture flicks into place, his now womanly hips sway, but his spine holds ridged with purpose and determination.

"This is amazing, Eames." He hears whispered from behind him. He turns slowly, glancing over his shoulder with her inquisitive gaze, her daring eyes, but his skepticism behind them. Arthur continues speaking as he slowly stands from his chair. "I never realized all the little details that made a person before. But seeing each one change in you," he pauses and licks his lips a bit before continuing, "It's art."

"Hmm." Is all Eames replies, and his face flashes something that Arthur can't discern but it looks a bit like fear. Before Arthur can nail it down Eames pulls a gun from nowhere and shoots himself in the temple, ejecting himself from the dream.

When he comes to, Eames snatches the needle from his wrist causing it to bleed down his wrist. He stands quickly, foregoing the usual alcohol swab, gathering his jacket and brushing quickly by Ariadne to the door. Arthur wakes just in time to see the door slam behind Eames and is confronted by Ariadne's questioning and concerned face.

"What just happened?" she asks, her eyebrows knitting together in confusion and worry.  
"I have no idea." Is all Arthur can reply, because he really doesn't have and idea. He delicately removes his own line from his wrist and rubs it with a cotton swab.

…

Eames finds himself in a dive ten minutes away from their warehouse. It's dark inside which is comforting, and the stools circle a bar in the center of the room. Kids in black, tight, jeans and flannel shirts and studded belts lean against stools and order beers. Classic rock and metal blares from the digital jukebox in the corner. He doesn't care that he looks very out of place in his gray blazer and maroon, garishly patterned, dress shirt. He just needs to drink, and to process _what the hell just happened?_

Arthur is flirting. That's obvious now. He wonders how long Arthur has been flirting and he hasn't noticed. He's usually very very aware of things like this. He's usually the one instigating because flirting seems friendly when in reality it pushes people away.

It upsets him a little that he'd not picked up on it. And slowly he recalls how Arthur leaned ever so slightly into him in the first level of the Inception dream. _You mustn't be afraid to dream a little bigger, darling._ He hears himself say. He remembers that he meant it sarcastically. Arthur had just gotten them into quite a mess and was ineffectively shooting at snipers with his FN SCAR-L. He'd forgiven the man immediately. It was unlike Arthur to make mistakes, he was the best point man in the business and things like that just didn't happen when he was running the show. Eames knew how rattled Arthur must have been at the time.

But now he feels his nerves light up at the memory. Arthur so near, elbow just brushing his arm as he raised his Milkor MGR grenade launcher. Maybe Arthur has interpreted his jest as affection. Maybe Eames himself had meant it affectionately, even a little. His heart beats a bit faster in his chest as he pictures Arthur's look from earlier, the daring one, from behind dark lashes, that bore right into him.

"Fuck." He growls into his glass, and a girl with plugs the size of silver dollar and shaggy black hair glances at him warily. He looks up at her and his cheeks twitch into a smile that doesn't change the purse of his lips. She darts her eyes away quickly, not curious enough to engage with the man who is quite apparently on edge over something. The bartender, smartly, keeps his drinks coming without being asked, and without asking questions.

Arthur, he contemplates, is nearly perfect. He's precise, tailored, quick witted, dangerous, and beautiful. He knows he's thought about that last one before. When they had first met, Eames in Royal Special Air Service and Arthur in the U.S. Special Operations Group, he had contemplated just how striking the very young at the time man was. His uniform was always starched and perfect, never a stain, or wrinkle. His stance was strong and controlled. Even at ease his upright nature made him seem more serious than his contemporaries.

He was surprised at Arthur's position in the team at such a young age. But as he got to know him, he became acutely aware as to why Arthur held such a high rank. The man was intensely intelligent, diligent and exact in everything he did, and fiercely dedicated to every mission. His research knew no boundaries, and when their governments started collaborating in the new technology of dream-sharing Arthur had saved the team from a lot of trouble with the facts he'd dredged up about each operation.

It had impressed Eames greatly, but it had also gotten under his skin. Arthur was always too put together, and a little too focused. His lack of humor for the job and his open irritation to mistakes had grated on Eames. Eames liked to experiment in the dreams. Arthur liked sticking to the plan. The man had a serious stick up his arse all the time.

That didn't stop him from being entirely too handsome. Eames had studied the man diligently. He knew what every expression the man made meant. Not that Arthur was a closed book or anything. He'd just found that he wanted to know him more. Getting inside Arthur's head made his job easier when he'd wanted it to be. On days when his irritation was too much to maintain humor and he didn't want a fight, he'd respond to Arthur's signals, tailoring his responses to make things go smoothly.

But now those signals were different. He'd been distracted, or ignoring them. They'd definitely become softer, more attentive, and even humored. Arthur, who'd been just as irritated at Eames in the past, seemed relaxed, as relaxed as Arthur gets. He seemed to be interested. And that was very dangerous. Because, if Eames was honest with himself, he was interested in Arthur too.

"Fuck," he whispered to himself again, this time dejectedly as he gulped back his fifth double shot of cheap whiskey. His vision finally starting to blur and his thoughts were beginning to cloud. _What the hell am I supposed to do with that little bit of information?_

…

Eames manages to avoid serious conversation with Arthur for the rest of the planning stages of the job. Arthur doesn't enter his dreams when Eames is practicing again. He still looks at him with that new gaze, though it is now tinged with a bit of concern. Eames tries desperately to ignore it.

Ariadne has picked up on the tension and questioning looks are shot his way when they work in the warehouse. But she doesn't say anything to him and he's fine with that. He just needs to get this job done and get the hell out. He doesn't want to deal with this. He doesn't want to even attempt to get involved with anyone again, let alone another co-worker. It just doesn't end well. And he doesn't want to think about going through that pain again.

He focuses on his forge, on the direction of the political campaign. His infiltration of the upper echelon of the campaign team has introduced a very interesting bit of information and they need to run with it. There is a lot of money coming in, not all of it seems to be legal. This is what the extraction will be. This is the plan. He can't ask about it in the real world, no one who would have the details will tell him directly, but something fishy is going on financially, and that will bring the young politician down.

…

The job nearly gets fucked to hell when Eames is on his first date in his dream world with Mr. Forthright. Forthright, for all his charm in the spotlight, is an absolutely dreadfully boring conversationalist. His ego is a bit exacerbating and Eames can't help but let his mind wander as they sit in the dimly lit and over romantic French restaurant that Ariadne has created. He picks at his Cassoulet and starts thinking about Arthur.

 _Why the fuck,_ he thinks _, is Arthur interested anyway?_ They do nothing but fight, little quips and barbs and one-up-man-ships. Arthur is far too superior, far too arrogant, and far too dignified to slum it with Eames. Eames has nothing to offer someone like that. He's a washed out ex soldier who stole from his government and escaped into a life of fake identities and theft. All he can do is become other people; it's the only thing he's good for anymore. His only consolation is that he's the best at it.

He doesn't notice his forge slipping until the projections go silent. He only flashes into himself for a second but it's enough to disturb Forthright's constant need to talk. He recovers quickly, becoming the beautiful redheaded assistant again. He smiles sweetly.

"What are you staring at?" He laughs in her singsong way. "Do I have something in my teeth?" And he giggles for good measure. He knows it's attractive and he needs to draw the mark in again. The projections go back to their conversations.

Forthright stutters but relaxes a bit, "I… I… I swear, I saw someone else sitting where you are for a moment."

"You're drunk, silly." And he's lucky that it is a mostly true statement. He cocks his head to the side and smiles in her disarming way, letting his hair fall in front of his shoulders. He leans across the table pushing his cleavage out a bit and brushes his hand lightly over Forthright's wrist. He whispers breathily in his ear, "Maybe we should get the check and head to your hotel."

Forthright grins wickedly, like he's ten years old and has discovered something dirty hidden under his father's mattress. All of his doubts pushed away by lust.

"Let's." he replies and he signals the waiter to their table.

…

Eames isn't opposed to fucking a man for information. It wouldn't be the first time. But he'd rather not if he can avoid it. Forthright is definitely not his type, and he is definitely not in the mood right now.

He'd almost ruined the whole job back there and was still a bit flustered at the mistake. As easygoing as he seems, Eames still rarely makes mistakes that aren't calculated risks or purposeful in some way. He pulls Forthright to him as he leans against the hotel door. He kisses the man, tipping up on his toes because he's shorter as a woman, and wraps his fingers through his hair.

Eames is tense, but he tries not to let on. He's about to slip the key card into the door behind him when Forthright jerks a bit in his arms. He shudders, grabbing at his neck before slumping to the floor. Eames eyes are wide in confusion until he sees Arthur standing in front of his lowering a syringe.

"Change of plans." Arthur says, and Eames doesn't think he's ever heard those words come from Arthur's mouth before. "His safe was empty. If he has a secret, he's shared it with someone. It's too in the open for a safe. But I have an idea."

They drag Forthright into the hotel room and toss him on the bed. He searches through a medical kit that Eames has never seen before, but isn't surprised Arthur has as it is a dream. He wouldn't be surprised if Arthur had one in reality as well. Arthur is prepared for anything even if his tools are sometimes a bit conservative for the situation. Arthur pulls out another syringe from his case.

"In about five minutes I want you to inject him with this. It'll wake him up, but he'll be feeling very confused, disoriented, basically still drunk, hung over…you get the idea. We need to get him to tell you about the money. Can you bring it up somehow? He might trust you if he's not in a sober state."

Something clicks in Eames mind. He's always been able to think well in Arthur's presence. "I have a better idea."

"Mmm, what's that? Arthur is busy filling the syringe from a glass medical bottle.

"He's not going to tell me. He's going to tell you." Arthur looks up abruptly, brow furrowed in a scowl, not understanding.

"Please elaborate." He says as recaps the bottle.

"I'm going to gush like a crazy girl at him." Eames smiles a bit because he's baiting Arthur, which he has to admit is a little fun. Working on the fly suits him and he's feeling that exhilarating twinge of anticipation creep up his spine.

"Yes… and?" Arthur narrows his eyes in annoyance at Eames' deliberately vague statement.

"I'm going to tell him how cute and talkative and open he is as a drunk. And I'm going to tell him how he's told me all his deep dark secrets about the campaign money, but that I can keep a secret, because I'm very loyal and I think we have a future together and I can help him."

"And that's going to get him to tell me? He doesn't even know me."

"No, that's going to get him to panic. No man wants to hear a woman declare that they see a future together on the first date. He's going to run, and he's going to find his partner in crime to try and control the situation. And if I'm correct, that person is going to be his right hand man, which in the dreamworld, can be you."

Arthur looks at him even more skeptically, if that's even possible but he continues listening.

"You remember those types of dreams where the people in them are people you know but they don't have the correct faces?"

Arthur nods.

"Right. Yet you still knew for a fact that they were someone you trusted or loved. I'm hoping that will work here. And you're enough of a tight arse in a suit to look the part. As you said, he's going to be disoriented."

The corners of Arthur's mouth pull down into a slight frown as he contemplates the plan.

"How exactly will he think that _I_ am his man?"

"That, Arthur is easy. All you have to do is approach him like you know him. He'll be flustered. He'll be looking for his guy. So you just come in all business, telling him how you need to go over the new contributions you've received. Hopefully then he'll blab about his mistake with the lovely lady here. Then all you have to do is ask him specifically what he told her. He'll spell it out for you."

"Eames," Arthur flashes a brilliant and mirthful smile. "You _are_ brilliant."

Eames takes the compliment. Because _this_ is what he does best.

…

Plan B goes flawlessly. Forthright spills his conniving little guts to Arthur in desperation. He needs Arthur to fix the situation. He can't lose this campaign, his career will never recover. He can't be outed again, a black mark already on his name. He'll be ruined. On and on the man laments.

Arthur assures him he will take care of everything and leaves to find Eames. They are well under their time limit so they eject from the dream with self inflicted bullets to the brain.

They leave Forthright under in the spa. He'll come to eventually. His masseuse will enjoy the easy money she made watching Ariadne watch over three men with tubes in their arms. They doubt she understands what is happening but Arthur will slip her a time-released sedative, courtesy of Yusuf, anyway to cloud her memories tonight.

They pack up the loft, spraying and wiping each surface with bleach to corrupt any evidence. It's more than overkill with successful jobs, but they take no chances. When the loft is spotless the team is free to go their separate ways. Ariadne wants to stick around until her flight later that night and demands that all three of them go for dinner and drinks up the street from the hotel.

Eames is dipping his duck fat chips, _fries as Americans call them his mind instantly corrects_ , into his black truffle mayonnaise. He's staring out at the beautifully decorated, dark walled, warehouse with loft that the restaurant has unfolded itself into. Ariadne is giggling brightly next to him and Arthur smiles.

Apparently Eames has just missed a good joke, which is disappointing because usually Arthur is witty with retorts and sarcasm and not one to make actual jokes. He'd been lost in thought, mulling over in his mind about how comfortable he'd felt just now, sitting with these two. Ariadne, so girlish and sweet, but razor sharp with her observations and perfectly stern with words when needed. Arthur, stoic and intelligent, but caring and eager to teach and explore. These people who he thinks he could consider friends, they really did make one hell of a team.

And bollocks, _there it is again_ , that memory fleeting across his brain, the cold of the room, and the slow drip of red from bluish white porcelain skin. His mood drops immediately and he tries to shield it from the other two, who are clearly enjoying themselves. He hails the waitress for another drink, foregoing the specialty cocktails for something a bit stronger.

...

Eames is well on his way to being pissed when Ariadne has to leave to catch a cab to the airport. Ariadne's a bit tipsy too if her red, flushed, cheeks and slight wobble are any indication. He's mildly impressed. She'd had six drinks and wasn't tanked like her petite size says she should be. But then again, she is a collage student in Paris. Arthur graciously offers her an arm to lead her outside. He's not anything if not a gentleman.

Eames sees Arthur's hand glide over Ariadne's gently, a quick movement to make her feel secure. His other hand is floating behind her lower back, not quite touching unless needed to balance her. Eames wonders if Arthur has always been so gentle. He's used to seeing him tearing men to neat little pieces, with fists or guns.

The thought doesn't last too long, as the two exit out the door. Ariadne pecks Eames' cheek before she leaves and mumbles something about taking care of himself or something. He orders another stiff drink and leans back into the booth.

Arthur returns a few minutes later and neatly sits back into his chair ordering another drink. Gin this time, not a cocktail. They drink in relative silence, listening the ambiance of the other diners conversation drift in the room.

Arthur is the first to break the silence.

"Today was very successful." He says it in a way that is neither flat, nor overly pleasant. It's simply a statement of fact.

"Mmmm, yes…I s'pose it was." Eames says carefully. His words slurring a bit, though he's trying not to let them.

"Today was very successful, thanks to _you_ Eames." And there is new warmth in Arthur's voice.

"You're just giving compliments away lately, aren't you Arthur?"

"Only when they are earned." Arthur says, his voice low and earnest.

"Buy me a drink then, yeah? For a job well done!" Eames picks his empty glass from the table, shaking it a tad in his hand for dramatic emphasis.

It's the only amusing remark he can come up with. Because he's not quite in the state of mind be truly witty or deal with Arthur being nice. And he really does just want to bloody drink until he passes out on his hotel bed.

Arthur catches the waitress again and orders both of them drinks. When they arrive, Arthur tips his glass in Eames direction, a casual toast. Eames mimics the gesture and pulls the corners of his mouth up in an uncomfortable, forced smile. He drinks quickly, letting the familiar burn eat at his throat.

…

Eames doesn't know when it happened, but at some point he's gotten himself completely shit-faced. He's only slipped into coherent thought again because someone has slipped a strong but careful arm under his shoulder and around his waist, simultaneously lifting him and steadying him on his feet. He leans into the person, hipbone hitting a much sharper hipbone. _Arthur_ his delayed senses tell him and his fingers pull desperately for purchase on the young man's shoulders as his traitorous knees try to collapse from under him. But Arthur holds firm, his hand wrapped securely at his ribs, but keeping his fingers from digging in.

"Let's get you to your room, Mr. Eames." Arthur says. Eames can merely mumble a reply.

They stumble slowly the few blocks to the hotel, Arthur's slight frame never giving in to Eames much heavier one swaying into and away from it as they walked. Eames is silent, which seems strange to Arthur. Eames is only silent when he's concentrating. But Arthur hasn't seen Eames _this drunk_ many times, and thinks maybe it's just due to him being on the verge of passing out.

After an awkward elevator ride of leaning into and propping Eames up against the wall they finally arrive on the tenth floor where both of their rooms are. Eames is not helping with movement much anymore so Arthur decides it's best to stick the man in his room instead of Eames'. His key card is easily accessible and he won't have to rummage through Eames' pockets this way.

He opens the door and shuffles Eames through awkwardly until he can push him onto the bed. Eames eyes are shut and his breath is more shallow than usual so Arthur assumes he's finally passed out. At least they made it to the hotel room before that happened. It would have been more than difficult to find a way to transport the man had he passed out on the street. Arthur starts to take Eames' shoes and socks off for him. Knowing how uncomfortable Eames gets in the more tailored clothes he'd worn to the restaurant, Arthur decides to remove Eames' shirt. He carefully unbuttons it, pushing it over the man's broad shoulders, and gently tugs it down his arms.

Arthur leans over Eames has started to undo his belt and remove his pants before they get too wrinkled when he feels strong hands grab his elbows. He looks down into Eames face a bit startled. Eames eyes are hooded and inky dark and he's staring intensely. There's an expression on Eames face that makes Arthur swallow hard. It's smoldering but tentative. Arthur thinks that it looks a bit dark, or fearful, or… he can't quite place it. Maybe pained?

Before he can study it more Eames has pulled him down, crushing their lips together in a furious kiss. Eames' lips bruise Arthur's as he holds forcefully to Arthur's shoulders. His tongue darts across the point man's teeth before his own teeth bite into Arthur's bottom lip. They can both hardly breath and Arthur pants, trying to get air while never breaking the kiss.

The fingers on his shoulders hold him into place and they sting his skin with pressure. Eames' whole body is tight underneath him, as if ever muscle is struggling for control, which doesn't feel right to Arthur. Eames is never this tense, always flowing or sauntering about casually. Eames' is holding on to him as if clutching at sand, trying desperately not to let it leak through his fingers.

Arthur tries to break the kiss, because _this isn't right_. Something isn't right. His own hand lies firmly on Eames' chest and he pushes himself away. He catches eyes with Eames and there's something wild in them, something like a wounded animal. Confusion slides across Arthur's face blatantly, his arched eyebrows an unspoken question.

Eames hands leave Arthur's shoulders in an instant, pulling in quickly to his sides. If Arthur hadn't been sitting on top of him, he would have sworn Eames would have curled into a ball just then. Instead Eames flattened his hands to the mattress, still arms straight at his sides, and tipped his head slowly to his shoulder looking away.

"I'm sorry." Eames whispers barely audible, and he draws both his hands up, scrubbing them over his face and through his hair.

"Eames." Arthur says gently and he reaches his hand to cup Eames' chin, urging him to look back.

Eames reluctantly turns back to look at Arthur and the inky blackness and broken animal look is replaced by raw pain. "I'm sorry Arthur," Eames repeats desperately. "I shouldn't have." He's stuttering now, uncontrolled and the alcohol is slurring his words.

"Eames." Arthur repeats himself, but gently, trying to reassure the man trapped underneath him from something he doesn't even know of what.

"You're just, and I'm just…" he continues. "And Arthur you are always there, so perfect, so, so put together, and I'm, I'm never…"

Arthur smiles nervously. "Eames, you aren't making sense." But he's losing him. The hysteria seems to be draining any coherency from as Eames continues.

"I shouldn't have done this. This was a mistake. I don't deserve someone like you. I don't deserve anyone. Everything goes to hell in my hands. I can't even be someone real. I can't be what anyone wants. It never works, you know? You'll just get hurt. I can't... I can't let you die like that!"

"Die like what? Eames?"

But Eames isn't listening anymore. And before Arthur can interrogate Eames more he finds himself sprawled unceremoniously on the floor. The larger man has bolted upright off the bed and is dragging Arthur up to his feet. Eames doesn't even speak to him as he roughly ushers him to the door, Arthur tripping over his own feet to keep up as he's practically dragged through the hotel room.

"Eames? Eames!" Is all Arthur can blurt out before he finds himself in the hallway with the door slammed in his face and locks clicking behind. He stands bewildered and jacket-less in the hallway trying to piece together _the fuck just happened?_

He hears shattering glass from inside the hotel room, something small, probably a lamp, or a vase. It's silent after that and Arthur's adrenaline subsides a bit, assuming, hoping really, that it means Eames has calmed down. He glances down the hallway, toying nervously at the rolled up cuff of his dress shirt, brushing his fingers over his wrists that will bruise tomorrow, deciding his next move.

…

It's not the light that wakes him and it's not the usual need for a morning piss though that's still there somewhere in on a secondary level that he'll have to take care of eventually. It's the pain centered at the base of Eames' skull and along his temples that forces him from dreamless slumber. The pain is both dull and sharp at the same time, drifting from the back and crashing like waves behind his eyes, making his veins pulse and his eyes bleary. He groans into the sheets and receives a spike of pain for his efforts. He reluctantly opens his eyes and they slowly focus on dark wood nightstand with a clock radio reading a quarter past eleven. There's a glass of water sitting on the stand and he reaches for it clumsily. His parched throat welcomes the cool liquid and the headache subsides slightly.

"Good morning."

Eames rears his head in the direction of the terse voice nearly dropping the rest of the water into the sheets and wincing as his headache flairs again. He spots Arthur, dressed immaculately already in a carefully pressed suit, sitting in a chair at the foot of the bed. Eames says nothing, just stares dumbly as he rests on his elbow in the bed as to not drop the glass.

"Do you mind explaining yourself?" Arthur clips.

The consonants are sharp on Eames' delicate and hung over ears. Eames' mind races when he realizes that he's not in his own room, the decor being identical, but on opposite sides of the room, and seeing as Arthur is here, he must be in the point man's room. He tries to remember how he got there, and the night rushes back a little too quickly. His stomach turns, a bit from realization and a bit from last night's alcohol still rebelling in his body.

"The fuck is that supposed to mean?" He hisses his reply, trying with difficulty not to vomit, because he's been thinking about his surroundings and not the question and now he's confused and his head is trying very hard to assassinate him from the inside by way of painful electrical impulses.

Arthur glares, his jaw set tight and his hands clutched together in his lap. His back is straighter than usual and Eames can almost feel the irritation and anger that emanates in waves from his sitting form. Arthur doesn't ask again he simply waits for Eames to answer his question. Eames shifts uncomfortably in the bed, turning himself under the sheets and pulling backwards to sit up against the headboard. He doesn't meet Arthur's eyes and chews on his lower lip a bit before finally speaking.

"What is it that you want, Arthur?"

"I thought that was pretty clear, Eames. I am here aren't I?"

"It's your room."

"You're the one who kissed me. I was going to wait until you were sober."

Something inside Eames breaks again. It's too much, this situation, this statement of intent. Arthur was going to wait? He was going to kiss him?

"Why Arthur?" Eames doesn't know why he's asking this question. He doesn't think he wants and answer.

"Why what?"

Eames frowns, mulling over the rest of his question in his mind. _Why are you here? Why are you being this patient? Why are you staring at me like that?_

"Why me? Arthur, you don't even like me."

"That's not true."

"The hell it is! We fight non-stop. The only reason Cobb brought me in is because I'm a good thief and the only reason you keep me around is because it's easier to have a forger than it is to not."

"Eames."

"Don't you get it Arthur? The only thing I'm useful for making jobs go smoothly, or ruining them entirely. And I don't won't you to be around for when the latter happens because I don't want you, or Ariadne, to end up hurt, or worse."

"Eames."

"This team, I can't stay here. I can't stay this long. It's too risky."

"Risky for whom? Me? Ariadne? Or you?" Arthur bites angrily. But he leans back in his chair again. Relaxing with effort in order to not shut down the conversation, keeping his body language open. It's a tip he'd learned from Eames actually. Eames has gone silent which means Arthur has hit a button and if he presses too hard now he'll lose Eames to anger. The moment hangs too long and Eames doesn't reply, so begrudgingly Arthur continues.

"You are an amazingly flawed creature Mr. Eames. It makes you fascinating." Arthur's tone is dry, but there isn't any sarcasm in it. Eames just stares somewhere in Arthur's direction, but not at him. Arthur can see the other man's jaw working through the thoughts in his head.

"Arthur, I can't." Eames starts again.

"Can't what?" Arthur asks in exacerbation. He is expecting any excuse to follow. He's not expecting the truth the comes next.

"Please, Arthur. I can't do it again. I can't lose someone like that again." Eames' voice is just a whisper.

"You mean Colleen Dupont."

Eames snaps his attention on Arthur immediately, stunned. "How did you…?"

"Point man."

Eames mouth closes. As his eyes cast down to the sheets.

"Eames, that wasn't your fault."Arthur tries.

"Don't, Arthur." Eames voice is a low threat, anger and pain vibrating in his throat.

"Eames."

"Don't try and make this better!" Eames hisses.

"Eames, it wasn't your fault." Arthur insists. "Everyone on that team was reckless then. It was early on in the business... "

"Stop it."

"They didn't know the consequences…"

" _I_ knew the consequences, Arthur. _You_ always knew the consequences, even then."

"Which is why it won't happen again, not like that."

"You don't know that."

"I do know that. If I ever get caught it's not going to be by surprise. It's going to be from risks I've already agreed to and chose to go foreword with anyway. It's going to be by bad luck or bad timing."

"What about Fischer hmm? You can't know everything Arthur."

Arthur sighs, knowing that he won't win this particular argument. He tries another direction. "I know that I want you Eames."

Eames laughs sharply. "You don't Arthur. I'm no one."

Arthur leans forward again. "I know that you saved all of our asses on the inception job. That your ideas are what made everything come together. That you cracked in an hour what you were supposed to have a night to do. I know that you've always been this talented. Take the Campbell job, early on, that team you were with couldn't extract honey from a hive and yet you pulled off one best high-risk operations in dream-sharing history with only two years experience."

"So you want to fuck me because I'm good at my job, is that it Arthur?" replies Eames icily. Because this is exactly what he didn't want. He didn't want the job, his forgeries, to be the attraction.

"Among other things, Mr. Eames. I know that you are the only one besides Saito and myself who has checked in on Robert Fischer since the job. That unlike myself and Mr. Saito, you did if for purely unselfish reasons."

"How did you…?"

"Point man. And I know that you check in on Ariadne as well, though she and I are doing a fine job of keeping her busy as well as safe. I know that you _care_. You genuinely care about the effect you, and all this, has on the people around you. That's why I know how much the situation with Colleen must have hurt you. But it's not your fault. Colleen made poor decisions on her own. She would have gotten you both killed if it had continued."

"Stop it Arthur, didn't your mother tell you it's not polite to speak ill of the dead?"

"It's the truth and you know it. You know she got killed because she blew your entire team's cover to make money on the side revealing completed extractions to the marks later. She just didn't expect that a mark might not take kindly to the fact that she was previously in their head in the first place, even if she was doing them a favor after."

The surprise Arthur sees in Eames eyes is unexpected. The man's color has drained completely from his face; his lips quiver with unspoken words and his hands are clenching the sheets turning his knuckles white with strain.

"You didn't _know_?" And it dawns on Arthur why Eames is so caught up in this nonsense now. Eames really did think it was his fault. Arthur stands from his chair and moves to the side of the bed. He reaches down slowly to cup Eames' jaw gently in his hand not forcing the stricken man to look at him, but making sure he was there as reassurance anyway.

"It was never your fault Eames. I'm sorry you lost her, but it was never your fault." Arthur bends low, bringing his face to Eames' level. They are mere inches apart and they both can feel each other's breath across their faces. "And I will never do that do you."

Arthur closes the gap, gently pressing a soft kiss to the corner of Eames' mouth. He stands slowly and straightens his jacket, turning away from the bed to leave. When he reaches the door frame he looks over his shoulder.

"You aren't perfect Mr. Eames. And I don't think you should be. You wouldn't be half as amazing if you were." With that, Arthur leaves giving Eames the space he needs to sort through this new information.

…

Epilogue

  
He brushes fingers along the ribs trapped below him. They shudder at the touch. His mouth traps the small whimper that would have escaped. His tongue darts across teeth and probes deeper, demanding, giving, and taking everything. He rocks his hips forward and the mouth draws away with a gasp. He rocks again and the man underneath him arches his back, pushing down harder demanding more.

"Eames, Jesus." Arthur chokes out as his legs wrap around his waist, drawing him in impossibly deep. Eames can feel the orgasm building at the base of his spine. His nerves light on fire and every part of his body sizzles with static electricity. He reaches between them, holding himself on one arm, and wraps his hand around Arthur's cock pumping it slowly. Arthur hisses with pleasure, his breath coming in short gasps.

Eames shifts just a bit, sinking in again, and Arthur nearly yelps. Eames knows he's hitting the lithe man in just the right spot now. He pumps harder, trying desperately to bring Arthur over the edge before he himself follows. Arthur is barely able to take in breath and with a few sharp thrusts Eames sends him over, hot fluid covering both their stomachs and Eames' hand. Arthur's muscles constrict involuntarily around Eames. Eames follows suit, spilling his seed inside Arthur and collapsing down on top of him. Eames can feel Arthur's pulse on his own chest, racing as Eames' hot breath dampens Arthur's neck.

They stay there for while, trying to regain their breath, before Eames whispers into Arthur's neck.

"Thank you."

"I should be thanking _you_ for that Eames." Arthur smiles.

"No, Arthur. _Thank you._ "

Arthur doesn't reply. He lets the comment stand, knowing exactly it's meaning. He simply turns his head, drawing Eames into a kiss as they both drift to sleep.


End file.
